


Blue Carbuncle

by valderys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: holmestice, Established Relationship, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How do you know I even want a present?” Sherlock asked, “I hate pandering to the forces of Mammon and Mithras alike. Christmas is an overrated occasion, not least because everything stops for a minimum of two days, and often much longer - the whole affair has always been dull when it isn’t excruciating.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Carbuncle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annella/gifts).



> Written for Holmestice, and is a reworking of the Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.

“I’m bored,” said Sherlock, from under the mound of duvets and quilts.

Lestrade looked over his reading glasses at the pillow next to him. Then he shook out the paper and proceeded to find his place in the mildly interesting article on the state of world’s tea industry.

“That’s hardly my problem,” he said, equitably.

There was a slight rustle, and Lestrade knew that if he looked again at least one eye might be poking out, together with a quantity of wayward dark hair.

“It _is_ your problem,” came the petulant voice, “I don’t sleep with you for the scintillating company.”

“Thanks,” said Lestrade, trying hard not to roll his eyes.

There was a small pause, as Sherlock obviously thought about things.

“The sex is bearable, as you know...”

“Cheers.”

“...And more than that, you somehow manage to get assigned to all the interesting cases in London. It’s worth it to me for that alone.”

Lestrade put the paper down, and stared at Sherlock through his glasses this time. Even blurry, he could tell Sherlock was trying to be... pleasant, in his own kind of way.

“You’ll turn my head with all these compliments,” he said dryly, “If you’re not careful, I’ll get so big-headed, I’ll have to leave the Force and set up a... hat-selling business.”

There was a snort of incredulity from the duvet, and Lestrade’s lips twitched. He smoothed out the paper and said cheerfully, “It’s Saturday, three days before Christmas, which means your boredom is not my problem. I don’t have to find you an interesting case - I’m on holiday.”

There was another rustle, and Lestrade twitched a little as he felt the touch of thin elegant fingers as they made their way up his inner thigh. He clamped his hand down on them, just before they reached anywhere really interesting.

“And you can stop that too. How old do you think I am? Twenty? I’m still pleasantly relaxed from the last round - relaxed being the operative word. I don’t think I could get it up again if you fed me Viagra with a spoon.” This time Lestrade did roll his eyes, and looked down at Sherlock again. He was pouting. The hair, the duvet, and the pout all conspired to make him look ridiculously young. Lestrade sighed.

“Look, why don’t you go back to Baker Street? John might be home.”

Sherlock’s face quirked in disgust, like a cat’s. “He was with Sarah last night, and he’s going to Harry’s for the holidays. Why do you think I’m here? I’m _bored_.”

Lestrade sighed and then, with a great air of martyrdom, put his paper down. “I was going to wait until Christmas day to give you your present, but obviously that isn’t going to work. If you leave me alone for half an hour to read in bed, comfortably, like I was planning before you decided to invite yourself over last night, then you can have it now instead.”

Sherlock was still looking suspicious. In a burst of unexpected fondness, Lestrade ran his fingers through the tuft of hair he could see. Sherlock shook his hand off without a sound, which made Lestrade want to laugh. The cat analogy was still holding.

“How do you know I even want a present?” Sherlock asked, “I hate pandering to the forces of Mammon and Mithras alike. Christmas is an overrated occasion, not least because everything stops for a minimum of two days, and often much longer - the whole affair has always been dull when it hasn’t been excruciating.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Do what you like with your gift - it’s yours,” he said, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

He reached down and pulled out a plastic bag from under the bed and chucked it at Sherlock’s head. When it connected, this time he couldn’t prevent the small snort of laughter. Sherlock looked offended, before diving into the contents of the bag anyway. Lestrade smiled.

“It’s a hat.” Sherlock sounded faintly surprised. He pulled it out and began examining it.

“It’s a mystery. Not a huge one I’ll grant you, but I still thought of you. Not everything’s about dead bodies.”

Lestrade looked over at him as Sherlock dived out from under the covers, and managed to utterly crumple his newspaper in the process. He really wasn’t going to get his half an hour of quiet reading time, was he? And there was no point in even asking for tea in bed - this _was_ Sherlock, after all.

“Look,” he said, “It’s just that yesterday a community support officer saw a scuffle taking place between a couple of blokes and when he went towards them, they both ran off - leaving this baseball cap and a turkey in that bag. The turkey’s in the fridge, if you’re interested - I thought if you can’t get it back to the right owner in time then we could eat it.”

Sherlock shot him a scathing look, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “ I know you’re not above a bit of turkey related lunch, so don’t give me that.”

“I suppose I’m a little surprised at your wanting to eat the evidence, but perhaps I over-estimated police training,” said Sherlock, loftily.

Lestrade didn’t even bother to rise to that particular jibe - it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s best. Not to mention they were talking about a lost turkey - it wasn’t precisely crime of the century. He could see that most of Sherlock’s attention was in any case focused on the baseball cap, so he waited. After another minute of intense scrutiny, Sherlock raised his head, and Lestrade was mildly annoyed to realise he’d been waiting with something not unlike anticipation.

“Well?” he demanded, and Sherlock sniffed.

“I can’t learn a great deal, barring he’s a middle aged man who’s fallen on hard times, possibly through gambling, rather than drink or drugs, and who works as a bike messenger in the area of Southwark. Beyond that, I can’t tell much past he shops at Marks and Spencer’s, but not often, and isn’t particularly environmentally conscious.”

There was a pause, before Lestrade threw up his hands. “If you want to explain, then get on with it. I’m not John, if you want sycophancy you can go right back to Baker Street.”

He was appalled to realise that he could hear a hint of jealousy in his complaint, which meant that Sherlock obviously would too. Mood ruined, Lestrade threw off the duvet and strode into the bathroom. As he took a piss, washed, and then cleaned his teeth, he ruminated on it. It wasn’t as if he and Sherlock had an actual _relationship_. He didn’t know where that particular reaction had come from, not really - maybe it was embarrassment? It wasn’t as if he’d thought Sherlock would thank him with open arms, but he’d thought he might at least appreciate the concept of his gift. That Lestrade had _tried_. Then he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. A remarkably stupid middle-aged man stared back at him. He’d been expecting thanks from _Sherlock Holmes_. Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair and turned away. It could be worse, he supposed. He could be reduced to being a bike messenger, like the bloke who’s hat they’d been investigating.

Lestrade exited the bathroom in a better state of mind than when he’d gone in. He needed a reality check every time Sherlock spent the night these days. Why on earth did he encourage him? It was beyond Lestrade - and it wasn’t just that he was a fantastic shag either, although that was true...

“Sherlock!”

The man had Lestrade’s laptop again. Which Lestrade had deliberately left downstairs, which meant that Sherlock must have been down specifically to get it. Damn him!

“I told you I don’t want you on my laptop - I know you can hack into anything that takes your fancy but I’m not making it any easier for you.” He dragged his dressing gown around him before marching over. There was nothing that ruined dignity more than nakedness.

Sherlock waved a hand in a dismissive way, without looking up. “I know all your petty secrets already, so it hardly matters. Come and look at this.”

He looked up then, his long sensitive face alight with interest. He didn’t look bored any more, Lestrade thought, grudgingly, so perhaps it did work. And he was wearing the bottom half of a pair of silk pajamas and nothing else. That definitely helped.

“What is it?” said Lestrade and moved until he could stare over Sherlock’s shoulder where he was sat on the bed. The cover of a magazine stared back at him, with a skinny blonde all lips and hips. Marie Claire. Not Sherlock’s usual style at all. There was a bright blue memory stick in the USB slot, and Sherlock tapped at it.

“I know it’s quite common to find a sixpence in the Christmas pudding, but what about a memory stick in the turkey crown? A more modern tradition perhaps?” He was grinning, and Lestrade could do nothing but smile back in the face of such enthusiasm.

“You found it in the fridge, I take it?”

“So obviously you can see why I needed your laptop. You should have got it for me.”

Lestrade took a breath, and thought about counting to twenty. Things never changed.

Then a surprising thing happened. Sherlock leaned back onto Lestrade, his shoulders resting gently against his thigh and hip, even as he picked up the baseball cap and twirled it on his finger, as though idly. Lestrade for his part could barely breathe, for fear of disturbing him - there was that cat comparison again. The shock of it kept him more than still. Was Sherlock really showing a sign of... affection? Intimacy unrelated to sex? His heart was pounding, it was crazy.

“So this bloke that lost his turkey - do you want to explain it to me?” Lestrade said, carefully, his voice a touch deeper than usual, and Sherlock tipped his head back, looking up at him through wide blue eyes. He didn’t smile, but Lestrade rather thought there was still humour in the creases at the corner of his mouth. Lestrade found he wanted to touch. To make sure.

“All right. The cap itself is a novelty item produced by the Borough Market, which is based as I’m sure you know in Bankside, near Southwark. There are a quantity of short grey hairs adhering to the brim of the cap, with the greater concentration on the rear part of the edge, together with the stains of heavy sweat. So its owner indulges in regular physical exertion, and the cap is worn backwards more often than not. Given the grey hair, I doubt this was a man who was fond of the skater lifestyle, so it is logical to assume he is working as a bike messenger, who often wear caps like these, reversed so as not to impede wind flow. Given the grey hair, it can be inferred that the man has fallen on hard times, as bike messenger is more likely to be a career for a much younger man. The reason for his fall from prosperity is a guess on my part, but it seems likely that gambling is to blame, since he obviously has something of a thirst for adrenaline - as there are many other minimum wage jobs he could have taken on instead.”

Sherlock paused as though to take stock. Greatly daring, since he didn’t actually intend to tease this time, Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, not quite squeezing, and laid his index finger along the nape of his neck, just stirring the shorter hairs there. He felt like cheering when Sherlock still didn’t move away.

“And the shopping, not to mention the memory stick?” Lestrade prompted.

“Well, the shop is obvious, as it’s a new disposable Marks and Spencer plastic bag, and it’s clear he doesn’t shop there often or he would likely have one already. He also didn’t ask for a bag for life, but instead was willing to pay the 5p Marks is charging these days. He didn’t have a bag for life from anywhere else either, which seems almost impossible these days. So therefore he’s not particularly environmentally conscious.”

Sherlock looked down at the cover art from Marie Claire on the laptop screen. “The most telling thing is how this memory stick got into his turkey. I think we can assume, since he was in a scuffle, that it wasn’t originally his, and that the proper owner was trying to get it back. Since there’s a Marks and Spencer’s Simply Food on Southwark Street, and Marks has a service whereby you order your fresh turkey from them weeks in advance, I can only assume that such a mix-up happened at collection.”

Sherlock bent his head over the laptop again, but still didn’t shake off Lestrade’s hand. It felt more of a privilege than Lestrade was entirely comfortable with, but that didn’t mean he was willing to give it up. He felt, in fact, entirely too possessive, if anything.

“Ah, I thought so.” Sherlock looked up triumphantly from his newly found web-page, where IPC Media was emblazoned across the screen. ”The media company that produces Marie Claire is based in an office building called the Blue Fin Building at 110 Southwark Street, just down the road from the Marks and Spencer’s in question.”

“Of course it is,” said Lestrade, ridiculously proud, only realising as he said it, that Sherlock would naturally hear the affection too. He had a moment of panic, because that wasn’t what their association was all about, not at all. He had a go at feigning indifference instead. “Are you going to drag me all the way across the river then? To return some bloke’s memory stick? I think we should at least keep the turkey as a finder’s fee.”

He reached down, past Sherlock’s shoulder, his hair brushing Lestrade’s cheek, and typed Blue Fin Building into Google.

“Bit ugly,” he offered, “Name’s a bit literal too.”

“Well, that’s hardly relevant.” Sherlock was still looking at him. It was off-putting. “Come on, stop panicking and think. I know you’re capable of it.”

That was it. Some irritation with Sherlock to get the old brain working, that’s what he needed. No wonder they were never _nice_ to one another.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Our bloke was attacked by the other one, which means it wasn’t just a random mix-up, or he’d have just politely asked for his memory stick back. The man was panicking, couldn’t think straight, or he’d never have thought that mugging the guy was the right move. Which means...”

Lestrade clapped a hand to his forehead in a small frenzy of humiliated anguish.

“Oh, I’ve been so stupid! The magazine cover is stolen, it must be.”

Sherlock looked smug. “The layout for the whole issue actually. I believe these things can have enormous transient value. So I understand from Ugly Betty.” He looked pained. “Which John makes me watch.”

Lestrade couldn’t give a damn about John’s appalling taste in TV. “So it’s actually a real crime, after all. Well, bugger me.”

“Perhaps later. It was a small problem, but not without it’s entertaining aspects. Thank you.”

Lestrade was away in his own thoughts, wondering who was on duty, who needed to be called in, Dimmock probably, although they’d have to throw a bone to Gregson too, probably, and who should he start contacting at IPC Media, and whether they’d even actually admit to the theft, because sometimes companies hated to admit they’d been fooled...

“What? What did you say?”

“You heard me. Sometimes I find you are not completely wasted in your profession.” Sherlock’s eyes were darting uneasily. He waved a hand at the picture on the screen. “Perhaps you could refer to the building in your report as the blue monstrosity? Or blue excrescence? That would liven things up.”

In the end, surprising even himself, it was Lestrade who moved first. He had to see Sherlock properly for this, so he sat on the bed next to him, daring even to bump shoulders.

“Do you mean you actually liked your Christmas present?” he demanded, feeling wild and just slightly out of control, as he was used to feeling around Sherlock, but not usually in his own bedroom.

There was another pause, and Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eye at all this time. “I suppose,” he said, “That there are things I appreciate about you. Not your sycophancy, because as you say, apparently I have John for that. But...”

Words appeared to fail him, but there was yet another hint of a smile around the eyes, and Lestrade let go his breath in one enormous whoosh. He was relieved, and he didn’t even really know why.

Off-handedly, he said, “Well, as it happens, there are things I appreciate about you too, I suppose. Although _not_ your Christmas spirit.”

“Good.”

“But your help with on-going police investigations. That thing you do with your tongue.”

There was a snort. “It’s good to know I’m appreciated for my finer qualities.”

Lestrade waited for a second, casting about for something appropriate to offer instead. He stared at Sherlock, all bed rumpled and delicious, and realised that Sherlock really was trying, in his own unique way. He didn’t have to hang around after sex - Lestrade should remember that. If Sherlock was only scratching an itch he could have been out of that door as soon as they were done. And he wasn’t. He was still here.

Lestrade bumped their shoulders again, and wondered how quick a man’s refractory period really was a forty seven. It was good to be appreciated, after all.

Instead he offered an olive branch, all the while marvelling at having to obliquely apologise for giving someone a Christmas present, even as the incongruity tickled him.

“I believe the technical term for an ugly piece of architecture is a ‘monstrous carbuncle’, thanks to Prince Charles,” said Lestrade, his voice carefully blank, “So in my report, would ‘blue carbuncle’ be more appropriate?”

Sherlock grinned his cat’s grin, and his eyes gleamed. He looked happy. And Lestrade couldn’t find it in him to deny that he was glad.


End file.
